‘Why?’
‘Because,’ said Eg, ‘Xzu is Elsewhere.’
‘Oh,’ said Alfric.
Then said no more. For the inhibitions ran deep, and he found it difficult to talk about visits Elsewhere even when he was in the company of a fellow banker.
‘I tell you what,’ said Eg, ‘why don’t you give me a verbal report and I’ll precis the same to Xzu when he’s back.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Alfric. ‘The ambassadors, well, they’re a couple of orks and-’
‘Orks?’ said Eg, it being his turn to be amazed.
‘Yes,’ said Alfric. ‘Orks, orks. Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my idea! Anyway-’
Alfric gave Banker Eg the gist of the matter for ontelling to Comptroller Xzu. Then, reluctantly, Alfric left his office, retreated to the vestibule, changed back into his boots and battle-gear, and set off for his father’s home. He went on foot, for there was no road for horses, not where he was going.
After Grendel Danbrog had been formally banished from Galsh Ebrek, he had settled in a house which stood atop a crag uplofted above some woodlands a full league from the city. Alfric was all mud, muck and sweat by the time he reached his father’s dwelling place, for much of the going was boggy, and the uphill labour needed to ascend the crag was heavy work in his furs.
Though She was said to be on the loose, Grendel’s house stood in little danger of attack by Herself. For no man or monster would choose to assail Grendel Danbrog, warrior amongst warriors. The house backed on to the rocks which formed the upmost tooth of the crag. It was approached by a narrow path which zag-zigged upwards through overgrowths of evergreen thorns. A deep ditch filled with such vegetative teeth guarded the final approach to the house, a single creaking plank providing a somewhat perilous crossing.
Alfric crossed.
Knocked on the door.
‘It’s open!’
His mother’s voice.
Alfric shouldered the heavy door ajar and went in. His father was nowhere to be seen, but his mother was working by the whimpling flaze of a single candle flame. He entered, taking care where he put his feet, for the floor was rotten. The place smelt as if something else was rotten as well, but the smell was merely that of Alfric’s parents, unwashed since the day they were born.
‘Shut the door,’ said Gertrude.
Alfric obeyed, and the flame steadied.
‘What you doing?’ said Alfric.
‘What does it look like?’ said his mother.
Gertrude Danbrog was a heavy woman, a woman no longer in possession of even the last rags of her beauty. She was busy making a casserole. As Alfric watched, she took an onion, cut free its roughish root, skinned it, chopped it, then tossed it into a fire-blackened pot. Then she took the corpses of a couple of small animals. Rabbits? No, they were ferrets. Deft was her hand as she skinned these beasts, whistling tonelessly all the while.
‘May I sit down?’ said Alfric.
‘No,’ said Gertrude.
Alfric was not surprised. This was more or less the unwelcome he had expected.
‘Where’s my father, then?’ he said.
‘In the barn.’
‘What bam? You haven’t got a bam.’
‘We have now. Built it last moon. Down by the Yarn Pool. That’s where he is. Off you go now.’
Alfric was not minded to stay, for already he had endured the stench of that dwelling for as long as he could. So off he went, down to the Yam Pool, where he found a new bam standing. It was built of logs. Had his father a tree-cutting permit, then? Probably not. Grendel Danbrog lived for the most part in defiance of the law, for none would dare bring complaint against him without the most grievous of reasons.
When he neared the Yam Pool, Alfric stopped. Could he see the bam? He could. And also: something else. Something sitting on a sharpened stake. The head of an animal. What? A goat. The sight made Alfric hesitate. Grendel had moods when it was better to avoid him: perhaps this was one of them. But the night was getting bitterly cold, and his sweat had cooled to chill; the wind hissed and fluthered, savaged and swept, and the thought of the bam’s comfort was positively appealing.
So Alfric opened a side door and went in.
Inside, voices drowned the suthering without. For here was a gathering of Yudonic Knights, several of whom were competing in story-telling. At Alfric’s entry, they broke off and saluted his arrival.
‘Here’s Alfric!’
‘Alfric, my boy. Come sit beside me.’
Then there was much handshaking and back-slapping, all of which was somewhat to the bewilderment of Alfric Danbrog. For, even though he was personally acquainted with most of these men, he scarcely counted himself the friend of any; and never before had he received any especial mark of their favour.
Once the boisterous greetings were done with, the Yudonic Knights went on with their stories, their heroic saga-tellings. One told of a dragon vomiting fiery gobbets as it rushed upon a hapless hero, lashing the air with roars of wrath; and, naturally, in this telling of the tale the hero triumphed, for all that he was armed with nothing more than a letter opener.
Many such stories the knights retailed. Of dragon and basilisk, of bills and bymies, of blood and decapitations. And, though they were amateurs, they brought to their tales all the professional enthusiasm with which a scop bards any account of murder and mayhem.
At last, Grendel called a halt.
‘Enough of talk and tales,’ said Grendel. ‘Let’s get down to business.’
Business? What was he talking about? Something to do with the Bank? Were these ruthless marauders after loans for something? If so, they’d probably be out of luck.
‘Alfric,’ said Grendel. ‘Step forth so all can see you.’
Alfric did so.
‘Behold,’ said Grendel. ‘My son.’
One Knight leaned close and removed Alfric’s spectacles. The banker felt a momentary panic as these so- essential instruments were removed, for his nearest spare pair was back in Galsh Ebrek. With the spectacles gone, Alfric’s world disintegrated into a blurred collage of colours, each sharp-featured face collapsing into a porridge of flesh.
‘So this is the son,’ said the Knight. ‘I could tear it limb from limb without blinking.’
‘If you feel that a profitable way to spend your night,’ said Alfric coolly, ‘then feel free.’
The Knight laughed, then peered closely at Alfric’s eyes, and was satisfied with what he saw.
‘They’re not red,’ said he. ‘Not red at all.’
With that, the Knight replaced the spectacles. As he was slightly drunk, he jammed them on, hurting the already reddened skin-patch on the bridge of Alfric’s nose. The lenses were blurred, smeared, greasefingered; but Alfric, though angry at this malhandling of his property, realized a well-meaning ignorance was to blame.
Usually, he would have taken off the spectacles immediately to remedy the damage. But here he did no such thing, for he was on display. So he put his hand to the hilt of his sword and said:
‘No red you see because none there is to sight.’
With Alfric’s normality thus vouched for, the joviality of the gathering increased markedly. Soon, everyone was in a mood for a story, so Grendel Danbrog began upon a tale.
Grendel told of the Wormlord’s father, and how that man had marched against Her son with a company of Knights. When father and companions failed to return from their expedition, nobody in Galsh Ebrek had been willing to follow in their footsteps. Nobody except Tromso Stavenger. Daring much, he had tracked through the wilds until he came to a gorge where his father and companions had been ambushed.
A terrible doom had come upon them in this narrow place. Here lay weapons barbed with blood, killing-irons of surpassing strength which had not availed against the fury which had fallen upon the Knights. Torn were the
